A Joy You Can't Keep In
by lorien829
Summary: Logan has been gone for thirty-two days when Veronica realizes her world will never be the same again. Spoilers up to and including the movie.
1. Chapter 1

**A Joy You Can't Keep In**

_The distance from here to where you'd be_

_Is only finger-lengths that I see._

_ -"Set Fire to the Third Bar", Snow Patrol_

* * *

He has been gone for thirty-two days before she realizes that something is wrong. She is in the grocery store buying random sundries: orange juice, coffee creamer, green apples… She passes a harried looking woman in the pasta aisle; her cart is still almost empty, but the toddler sitting in the basket is already beginning to fuss. She is not sure why, but the lone item in the woman's basket – the bright pink of a box of feminine hygiene products – catches her eye… catches her eye and jars something heretofore unnoticed and now thoroughly unwelcome to the forefront of her mind. She counts backward in her head, tries to remember the last time she purchased those. It was in New York.

_Oh no_…

* * *

He has been gone for thirty-three days when she is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, defiantly keeping her back turned to the plastic stick sitting on top of the tank. She feels like she might throw up, and she has no idea if it is a legitimate symptom, induced by sheer dread, or her mind siccing things on her now that she knows. Because she _knows_. Knows in her gut, knows in the bottom of her soul, knows like she knew Logan was innocent. She bites her lips together, intertwines her fingers with each other until her knuckles whiten. Her stomach churns. Has it been two minutes? It feels like it's been two _years_. She pushes against the floor, spinning herself around on the toilet lid, clenching her jaw at the rush of nausea. She peers at the test.

_Two lines._

* * *

He has been gone for forty-nine days before her father notices that she is acting squirrelly. He is waiting for her in the living room, when she arrives home from the office. The waning light from the afternoon sun tints everything orange. His walker is a stark silhouette next to his chair. She watches him shift his hips and suppress a grimace.

"Is everything okay, Veronica?" He asks, and she can hear the helplessness beneath his voice. He knows he can't really help her, can't protect her, can't bring Logan back for her. But he wants her to know that he is _there_.

She plops down on the sofa like a marionette with cut strings. Kicks off her shoes under the coffee table. She looks at him, a look that begs for forgiveness before he even knows the transgression.

"I'm pregnant."

* * *

He has been gone for sixty-one days when she goes to her first doctor's appointment. She thumbs through a four-year-old magazine, and feels like she is the elephant in the room, sitting there all alone, even though she's not yet showing. She feels like she has a neon sign blinking above her head: Knocked Up After Only Two Weeks! Father On Other Side Of World… Oh Yeah, And He Doesn't Even Know. She sighs, lays one hand on her stomach as it gurgles hungrily. _Sure, _now_ you're hungry, _she thinks with irritation. _That's what you get for rejecting the breakfast I ate earlier. Serves you right!_

She has the sudden urge to drop the magazine and flee. What is she even doing anyway? She thinks she and Logan have an understanding. She thinks they are both through playing games. She _thinks_ too damn much. When he left, they did not know there was a baby in the equation. She is afraid that that will change all the math.

The nurse calls her name, and she stands, drawing herself up to her full, if not considerable, height. She walks across the waiting room with a confidence she does not really feel.

Veronica _likes _knowing things. Knowledge is security, power, an edge. She does not know what will happen next, and it frightens her. All she does know is that she carries part of Logan inside of her, and maybe _that_ is worth all the rest of it.

* * *

He has been gone for sixty-three days when she sits in front of her laptop, nervously creasing the ultrasound photo in her hands. The Skype call connects, and his face, somewhat grainy and out of sync, is smiling at her.

They exchange hellos and a few inane questions about work. Their careers being what they are, there are several _I can't talk about that_s. She laughs, and his eyes are soft when they look at her. She misses him. She tells him so.

"Good," he replies. There is enough longing in his face to make her blush. She has rolled up the photo like a cigarette, and her fingers are sweaty around it.

"Is everything all right?" The question is gentle. "Your emails have seemed…a little distracted lately."

She freezes. Hopes that he thinks it's the connection rather than her. She has thought about what to say. Hell, she's even practiced it in front of the mirror. And all at once, it somehow seems inadequate. Were there ever two people in the entire world less equipped to be decent parents? _What is he going to say?_ Her mouth fills up with saliva that she cannot swallow.

"Veronica?" There is alarm now in his eyes. _Great_, she thinks. _He flies $60 million dollar jets every day, and I've scared him. _

She unrolls the picture, down low, in her lap. Her fingers are trembling.

"I have something to show you," she says.

"Okay," he replies warily, his voice measured. He drops his gaze, and then the picture really does freeze.

"Logan?"

_Connection Timed Out._

* * *

He has been gone sixty-four days when she replies to his frantic email. "_I am fine. You and I are fine. I need to talk to you._ _Not email."_

* * *

He has been gone for seventy-three days before they can Skype again. When he appears on the screen, she can tell instantly how jumpy and tense he is… how jumpy and tense _she_ has made him. The muscles in his arm ripple, and she knows that he is drumming his fingers on his leg.

"What did you want to talk about, Veronica?" He is trying to sound normal. He thinks she is running again. He is trying to brace himself for news that she is moving back to New York, that she has made a mistake. It makes her feel awful.

She cuts her eyes to the ultrasound photo lying on the table next to the computer. It is looking somewhat worse for the wear.

"Can I show you what I was going to show you when the last call cut out?" She asks, her voice sounding stiff and overly formal. He is looking at her like he thinks she is a _Body Snatchers _extra.

"Sure," he says inanely, watching her with trepidation in his eyes. She hates that she has done this to him, that they have done this to each other. She reaches for the picture, wordlessly holds it up, watching the little thumbnail screen to make sure that it is in frame. She is not sure that he'll be able to make anything out, that he'll even recognize the standard pattern of ultrasound pictures: mostly black surrounded by a white border.

Logan leans toward the screen. "What is it?" She smiles tremulously.

"Our baby."

He stills so suddenly that she worries the call has dropped again, but then his eyes are piercing into hers, even from thousands of miles away.

"Are we happy about this?" He finally asks, and she knows that he means "you" when he says "we".

"We're still figuring it out," she replies in like manner. But then she swallows, growing serious. She flicks a nervous glance at him. "What do you think?" Her lips twitch upward.

"I think… I think that anyone who is part me and part you will either end up ruling the world or rotting in prison. And it's a toss-up as to which." He laughs, a little shakily.

"Logan…" It is a plea for him to be serious, and he complies.

"Well, um… you did tell me about it. The questionable décor behind you indicates that you haven't taken the first flight back to New York." He is ticking things off on his fingers. "You even smiled… sort of. I feel like we're ahead of the game already."

"Only because you didn't see me hurling my guts up this morning."

He dips his elbow and snaps his fingers. "Aw, darn." He darts a cautious glance at her; he has the hopeful face of one who prays the happy ending will not be snatched from his grasp, but is afraid that it will. "I wish I was there with you right now." The words are heavy with sincerity, but followed by a theatrical wince. "Even if that means there would be vomit," he stage whispers.

"I think that's one of the most romantic things you've ever said to me."

"Sometimes, I even amaze myself."

* * *

He has been gone for ninety-four days when she finally gives up on regular clothes. She has been wearing yoga pants around the house and on errands, but has been cramming herself into her regular work clothes. When she finally puts on a pair of black maternity slacks, she lets out a sigh of relief and knows that she'll never go back.

She eyes herself sideways in the mirror, amazed at how truly _pregnant_ she looks now. Even knowing that she could put on her regular jeans again, painful though it may be, and conceal it, she feels huge.

She takes a picture of herself in the glass, and emails it to Logan.

It is not long before he replies: "_Who's the whale?" _followed by a winky face.

She chortles to herself and writes: "_It is a sign of the apocalypse when the Master of All Things Sardonic uses a winky face icon, right?"_

"_Hey, I've heard horrifying tales of how you pregnant types misinterpret things. I'm just trying to cover my bases."_

"_You mean your ass."_

"_That too."_

The messages are flying back and forth, and she feels silly with this smile stamped across her face so that her cheeks ache. "_Can you talk?"_

"_No."_ She can almost hear his regretful sigh. _"_'_I'm due on deck in a few. I miss you. Both of you."_

"_Can you miss someone you've never even met?"_

His reply is almost instant. "_Yes."_

She blames the hormones for both the tears that fill her eyes and the sensation that her heart has melted into a puddle of ridiculous sappy goo.

* * *

He has been gone for ninety-nine days when she finally fusses at him for calling their baby "it".

"_I thought 'it' was a perfectly acceptable gender-neutral pronoun."_

"_It is. But the baby isn't gender-neutral. It's gender-unknown."_

"_Um… I hate to break it to you, but there is no 'gender-unknown' pronoun. And 'he or she' is awfully cumbersome, don't you think? Sounds lofty. Pretentious."_

She can read the smile between the lines, and she can't help smiling back.

"_I thought your picture was next to 'pretentious' in the dictionary."_

"_Your rapier wit. It wounds. I seem to recall that my picture is also next to 'lazy' in the dictionary. 'It' is easier to type."_

"_Well, quit it anyway. It makes me feel like I'm growing something non-human. Like a tapeworm."_

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred days when she gets an email from him asking how the tapeworm is doing.

The nickname sticks. She supposes that she brought it on herself.

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred eleven days when she goes for her ultrasound. She brings her father with her. She doesn't figure he'll get too offended if she's wishing he was Logan. She has sworn on her life to text Wallace and Mac the second she knows whether the tapeworm is a boy or a girl.

Her heart is in her throat as the technician dollops the cold gel onto her belly, then swirls the wand onto it. The picture is surreal and alien, but she is amazed at the changes from her initial scan, when the baby appeared as not much more than a blip on the screen. She can make out arms, legs, a spinal column, and a dark, rapidly fluttering thing – their baby's heart. She squeezes her dad's hand tightly, wishing that Logan could be here, that Logan could see _this_, so badly that it hurts.

The technician is pausing every so often to click on things, measuring the length of the femur and the circumference of the skull, spewing perfunctory sentence fragments like "Four chambers in the heart," and "Kidneys here."

Finally, she is asked if she wants to know the gender, but her throat has closed up so tightly that all she can do is nod. The technician gives her a quizzical look and offers,

"There's nothing to worry about. Everything looks great. You're measuring right on schedule."

"The baby's father is in the Navy. Deployed," her dad explains, eliciting an understanding _Ahh_ from the technician.

"Well, the next time you talk to him, you tell him he needs to get home to you and his baby girl."

She manages to smile before she starts crying in earnest, daubing at her tears with one hand, as she takes a tissue to wipe off the gel with the other. She is _glad_ it is a girl, and no one would really understand exactly why. She knows – knows without knowing how she knows – that Logan is terrified of turning out like his father. A girl would ease his mind somewhat, as ridiculous as it sounds – _she_ knows he would never hurt a child – because his father never raised a hand to Trina.

She imagines Logan getting all gushy, besotted and manipulated by a tiny scrap of a human completely dependent on them – which is another type of terror altogether – and it makes her feel warm and giddy all the way down to her toes.

She texts Wallace and Mac while the technician prints out a string of pictures and gives her the DVD. The warm feeling stays with her, buoys her, sustains her.

She cannot wait to tell him.

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred thirty-four days when she brings up baby names. She includes several links to naming websites.

"_I would have thought you'd have had names picked out for years," _he teases.

"_Do you know me at all? Do I seem like the kind of girl who's had baby names picked out since she was ten?"_

"_I don't know. You sure produced that wedding planner right quick, that day we staked out the Grand. Wouldn't have pegged you as _that_ kind of girl either."_

She wonders if he can sense her blushing over the internet. "_That wasn't mine. It was just a prop I threw together."_

"_Veronica, it was four inches thick. There were _ribbons_!"_

"_I hate you."_

"_Winky face?"_

"_How about the face rolling its eyes? Now… names? Any preferences?"_

"_Well, you know I'm down with anything… especially if it has a double 'e' at the end, or an excessive number of 'y's."_

"_So, you want to make sure she's on the cheerleading squad then?"_

"_What about something literary? Something intelligent, classical…Shakespearean?"_

"_Oh look! It's my dictionary's entry for 'pretentious' again! Now it's talking about names like Hermione!"_

"_Nah, not Hermione. Twenty years ago, it would have sounded intelligent and classical. Now it just sounds like you're a crazed Harry Potter fan."_

"_Juliet?"_

"_She's already our spawn, Veronica. She'll have enough of a genetic predisposition to angst without naming her after an icon of romantic tragedy."_

"_I concede your point, Lieutenant. I just didn't know if there were names that were off-limits. We don't exactly have massive numbers of stellar ancestors to honor with the name of our firstborn."_

"_Let's not use any family names that belong to lushes or corpses."_

"_Can you get back to me with a top ten list?"_

"_I'll take 'Things I Can Do With My Abundance of Free Time' for $200, Alex."_

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred thirty-eight days when she gets an email from him about names. There is not a top ten list. There is one name.

"_Abigail. Look it up."_

She does, and the laptop screen wavers and swirls through her sudden flood of tears. "_Abigail," _the website says. "_Hebrew origin. Meaning: 'My father is joyful'"._

She sends him a five word reply. "_It's perfect. I love you." _She clicks _send_ before she can think herself out of it, and waits on proverbial tenterhooks for his reply, which seems to take overlong coming.

"_Sorry. Had to mark this day on my calendar. I love you too."_

She smiles for the rest of the day.

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred fifty-two days when she gets carjacked. She has been delegating a fair bit of the field work to Weevil and Mac since her father has been out of commission. Logan hasn't asked her to stay out of trouble, but she can see the worry hovering behind his eyes when they talk, and she is trying to be a grown-up, trying to be cognizant of when it is and isn't okay to put oneself in danger, trying to remember that she is no longer responsible for only herself.

She is merely doing surveillance, having eschewed Logan's snazzy car for Wallace's more nondescript model. She honestly thinks that it is not a big deal. She sits across the street and two doors down from the house she is watching. The mark arrives, and she is busy behind the massive lens of the camera, tracking every step of his progress. A woman answers the door, and there is some PG-13 rated action right in the doorway. Then – Veronica jolts backward in surprise – there is an exchange: a paper bag for a briefcase. Both the woman and the mark peer inside each bag to satisfy themselves about the contents. She quickly takes more pictures.

Sirens wail suddenly. The Doppler effect makes them hard to localize, and Veronica drops the heavy camera into her lap, trying to figure out where they're coming from. She misses the moment the mark makes her – how, she does not know – but when she looks up, he is nearly to the car, and there is no time to crank the engine and peel out.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarls, with a nauseating puff of vodka-soaked air.

"My husband and I are thinking of buying this house," she burbles brightly, indicating the For Sale sign across the way. "I wanted to show him pictures." She is groping behind her for her taser, but her bag is in the passenger side floorboard.

The sirens are louder. She is not sure whether or not he believes her, but he has wrenched her door open and yanked her out, throwing her unceremoniously to the pavement. A heartbeat later, her camera shatters next to her, then her bag, spilling its contents. She is still trying to push herself upright on abraded palms, when he tears out of the parking place, narrowly missing clipping her with the rear bumper.

Her rear end is throbbing, and so is her ankle. Abigail kicks her insides reassuringly, and she absently places a hand there. She looks at the broken mess of her camera, and swears.

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred sixty-five days when he Skypes her and he _knows_. She can tell by the flare of worry in his eyes that wars with anger, even as his smile remains bland.

"So…" he says, almost in his old singsong way. "What's new with you? Been thrown out of any vehicles lately?"

She wonders briefly who told, but realizes it could have been anybody: Wallace, Mac, Dick, her father… Thrice-damned Good Samaritans, the lot of 'em. _Well, _she amends, _maybe not Dick._

"Logan, I'm _fine_."

"I thought I've done well, actually, Veronica. I haven't nagged, haven't hovered – "

"I think even the Almighty Logan Echolls might have difficulty hovering from the other side of the planet," she breaks in, trying, not terribly successfully, to lighten the moment.

"What in God's name were you _doing_?"

"You mean, you didn't get that juicy tidbit from your network of informants?"

"Funnily enough, no. I'm not entirely sure of the level of loyalty this network has… to _me _anyway."

"It was surveillance. Mac and Weevil have been doing most of the heavy lifting. Ask them. This was a standard cheating husband." He remains silent, clearly waiting for her to continue. "… where the two people involved in the affair just happened to conclude a coke deal at the same time," she finishes sullenly. "The police were tipped off… and the mark stole my car – er, Wallace's car."

"After he threw you out of it."

She tries to shift in her chair without grimacing. She doesn't dare look toward her propped up ankle, still ensconced in an Ace bandage.

"_And_ my camera."

"Your camera isn't carrying our child." She must look suitably stricken, because Logan's ire sort of melts into a worried anguish.

"I'm sorry, Logan." She means it.

"Fifteen days, Veronica. I'll be home in fifteen days, and then I'll have leave. Can you give me fifteen days?"

"You drive a hard bargain, mister." She lapses into a thick Southern accent.

"I refuse to be distracted by any of your other personalities," he tells her stonily, but one corner of his mouth goes up.

"No more field work," she promises. "For fifteen days."

"Veronica!"

"No more field work, unless it's completely vanilla stuff, _and_ someone goes with me."

"And drives."

"I can still drive!"

"Those are my terms."

"You are deliberately taking advantage of the fact that I am incubating your spawn."

"Yes, I am." He looks unrepentant as he speaks, but then spears her with a glance that makes her melt. "I love you. And, that being the case, if you get thrown out of any more vehicles by bad guys, I'm gonna have to hunt their asses down, possibly do jail time, and – I know from personal experience – the Navy does _not _love that."

"I'll be good, Logan. I promise." He cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Are these the hormones talking now? Making you all uncharacteristically reasonable and such like? Because I think that makes them my new friends."

She sticks her tongue out at him. The call freezes up while he is still laughing.

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred seventy-one days when she feels the stirrings of blind panic welling up within her. Logan is going to be home soon. They haven't talked about it in so many words, but she is fairly certain that they are going to give this relationship thing a go. Historically, they have been poster children for 'dysfunctional', and now there will be a baby just waiting to be caught in their crossfire.

She knows that Abigail is shoving all her organs out of their original positions, and she tells herself that that is why it is difficult to breathe. It is definitely _not_ because she has decided to wait almost six months to freak out on what is practically the eve of her boyfriend's – oh _God_, they haven't labeled anything – what _are _they? – return home.

They have done everything out of order, and that was _after_ they had to deal with things, both separately and jointly, that no teenager should have to attempt to handle. After more than one attempt at their tumultuous disaster of a relationship, she had fled. They had finished college separately, had not spoken again. _Nine years of radio _silence, he'd said. She remembers noticing when he finally stopped calling her cell phone. Even now, she isn't sure what made her pick up this last, most recent call, but the part of her that still believes in fairy tale endings is glad she did, even under the swamping wave of fear.

_Epic_. They were _epic. _Spanning years, continents. Lives ruined. Blood shed. She remembers those words: those poetic, romantic, desperate words that he had been too drunk to remember saying.

She doesn't want Abigail to be a ruined life to add to their tally.

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred seventy-nine days when they Skype again. It will be their last Skype call before he returns home. That thought disturbs a swarm of butterflies in her stomach

His face changes expression as soon as he sees her.

"You've been thinking too much."

She doesn't try to deny it. "_J'accuse_," she whispers softly, with a mirthless laugh.

"Have you passed summary judgment on us yet?"

"Logan, I'm scared!" She blurts, surprising them both. "What if we mess this up? If this was gonna work, wouldn't it have worked already? Do we even know each other anymore? I'm afraid of screwing up Abigail!" It's like her mouth has taken over, and is no longer asking permission from her brain.

"I think we've grown up, Veronica. And I think that makes up for a hell of a lot. Maybe we needed the time apart, the other experiences, to be able to appreciate what we had together. There's never been anyone for me but you… not really."

"But – But Carrie – "

"Think about every relationship you've had since the day I beat up that Russian asshole in the food court. Really think about them, and what they meant. Or didn't mean."

She does. And she knows he is right. _Epic. Star-crossed_. They've ruined each other for anyone else.

"I've made my decision. I'm in this for the lon – " he stumbles gracelessly to a stop, and she knows he'd been about to say _long haul_, but choked on the words, the title of one of his father's movies. "I choose _us_, Veronica. I'm actively making the choice. Every day. Please believe me."

Her eyes are awash in tears, as she looks at him. She has that funny light-headed, stomach flippy feeling, as if she is looking over a precipice. She shoves away thoughts of bus wreckage floating at the bottom.

"Okay."

Logan looks as if she has vaguely disappointed him, as if he had a few more articulately worded pleas that he is not going to need to use. "Okay? Aren't I still supposed to chase you… shouting your name? And in the rain too, I think."

She can't help a snort. "I figured that would be hard to finagle on an aircraft carrier. I'm trying to help you out here." He grins, but does not lose the serious thread of their conversation.

"Are you sure? I want this, you, _us_, more than I've ever wanted anything. But I want you to want this too."

"I do," she murmurs, and the exact words she has spoken are not lost on either of them.

"I wanna hear that again someday. Under radically different circumstances, you understand."

"Maybe…" she takes a deep breath. _We can do this._ "Maybe that could be arranged."

* * *

He has been gone for one hundred eighty-one days when she is standing on a dock in San Diego, watching this impossible floating behemoth make its way toward them. She is surrounded by throngs of other exultant people: siblings, parents, wives, strollers with infants who have never met their fathers. Her pregnancy has not gone unremarked upon, but she finds that she cannot even remember what exactly she said in response. She is strung as taut as a wire, Abigail thumping inside of her. She feels like every heartbeat, every surge of her blood, is focused solely on Logan.

She is trying to remember the details of his uniform; the sea of white is blending together. She honestly thinks she might not ever find him in this morass of humanity.

And then he is there. And she is stumbling the last few feet, all but throwing herself in his arms.

"Hi," is all she gets out before her throat closes up. Her arms twine around his neck, and tears wet the front of his uniform.

He kisses her so hard that her toes curl, and she distantly thinks that people may be taking their picture. Abigail is an unwieldy presence between them, and Veronica feels her kick vigorously.

Logan feels it too.

"Kid's already in the way," he mock-grumbles, backing away slightly to take in the sight of her, laying gentle hands against her abdomen. She sees the sheen of tears in his eyes, when Abigail moves beneath his palms.

"You'd best get used to it," she chides.

"I could _definitely_ get used to it," he whispers hoarsely, before sweeping her up to kiss her again.

* * *

**AN: **I am a Veronica Mars newbie, having mainlined the entire series + the movie in less than two weeks. I would love to hear what you think.

This is a two-shot, so there will be one more chapter to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Joy You Can't Keep In**

_And, dreaming, pick up from_

_The last place we left off_

_ -Set Fire to the Third Bar, _Snow Patrol

He has been home for five days when he is finally released on leave by the Navy. He surprises her with lunch at the office, and when they stumble in the doorway of her father's house, they are disheveled and groping like teenagers. She tries not to be embarrassed when the sound of her father clearing his throat cuts through the haze like the scratching of a phonograph needle. They freeze; her forehead drops to his chest, and his chin hits the top of her head. For a long moment, no one moves.

"You realize that I can still see you, right?" comes her father's dry voice. She lets go of Logan's sleeves, and turns with a pained smile.

"Hi, Dad. Sorry about that."

"_How_ is it exactly that you still live with your father?"

"I'm afraid that aiding his recovery would still have trumped sexytimes with you, had you even been here. As you weren't, there was no real reason to go."

"_Then." _Logan says meaningfully, pressing his point.

"Hello! Your father. The one who fed you and changed your diapers. He is still in the room," Keith Mars says, gesturing at himself.

"See, Veronica," Logan points out in the hushed voice of a guide on a safari. "That right there is what they call 'incentive'."

"Incentive to do what exactly?"

Logan opens his mouth to speak, but pauses, and shoots her a somewhat wary look.

"If I, in any way, mention getting a place where you would not live with your father, and I would not reside with Dick Casablancas in any capacity, would that freak you out? If so, that is not what I'm trying to indicate at all."

In fact, it does inject a frisson of fear up her spine, even as she knows that she is being ridiculous. What of the intimacies they've exchanged, the things they've said to each other while he was gone? Somehow, having him here in the flesh, and having decisions moved from a nebulous point in the future to _now_, is both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

"Couldn't I just come over, and stay with you and Dick?"

"You could, if I lived there."

"You don't live there?"

"These are the types of conversations that normal people have before they make babies together," her father says, ostensibly to no one.

"I stay there sometimes. Stay on base sometimes. Stay with the guys in the squadron sometimes… or – or – I used to, I mean… with Carrie... I don't really – I don't have – " He stumbles to a stop, and this surprises Veronica more than anything else, because even in the worst of times, Logan has almost always had a deft way with words, able to wield them in whatever way he sees fit at a given time. She is able to understand what he isn't saying: that he has not had a home, not a true home, since his parents' house burned… and frankly enough, maybe not even then. Veronica feels a rush of protectiveness and love drowning the fear, and a flurry of words tumbles out.

"Let's do it. Get a place, I mean. Together."

Logan spears her with a look that sees right through her, and she wonders if he is going to call shenanigans. But she remembers what he'd said: _I choose _us, _Veronica. I'm actively making the choice. Every day._ If he can do that, so can she. Damn it, they are _trying_. She _wants _to try, more than she's ever wanted anything, she thinks.

"I'm serious." Her voice is steadier. "I love you. I want to make a home with you."

His face is solemn as he nods at her. "Okay." His voice is barely audible, but has all the solemnity of a vow. They stare at each other for a long, fraught moment, before her father speaks again.

"That is a whole lot of decision making you two just did in my doorway. So why don't you come sit down, before we discuss dinner?"

* * *

He has been home for twelve days when he accompanies her to a doctor's appointment. His fingers are laced through hers, and they are still looking at each other constantly, as if neither one of them can believe that the other one is still there. She feels silly, giddy, like a crushing teenage girl, like a honeymooner, instead of like what she is: a woman who is seven months pregnant by an on-again-boyfriend from whom she is suddenly no longer estranged. _My life is ridiculous_, she can't help thinking.

"Nobody's had amnesia yet," he murmurs at her, as he holds open the door to the professional building, relinquishing her hand as she passes through it.

She blinks at him, groping helplessly for the logic that birthed this _non sequitur_.

"Your life is _not_, in fact, analogous to a soap opera. Nobody's – "

" – had amnesia yet." She finishes his sentence as she cottons on to his meaning. "Truthfully, trashy reality show might be a better fit. And how is it that you can still do that?"

"Do what? Read your mind? Do you yet doubt my formidable skills, grasshopper?"

She laughs, as he opens the door to the doctor's office, but whatever retort she'd been about to offer dies on her lips, as everyone's eyes instantly fall on them, and the various individual conversations grind to a deafening halt. She knows the nurses by now, and she recognizes a few of her fellow mothers-to-be who have happened upon a similar appointment schedule, but they are not looking at her.

They are looking at Logan.

She threads her fingers through his again, and turns toward the clipboard at the front window, signing her name in a shaky scrawl that tries too hard to be casual.

"Careful," Logan stage whispers in her ear. "Don't stand too close. You'll get notoriety on you."

"Logan…" Her look is mingled apology and compassion. She hates hearing the bitter undertone in his voice, the one that rarely leaves it, the one that signals – even when he is making a joke – how much things like this bother him. "I'm surprised it hasn't, I don't know, blown over. With all the press about the _actual _killer… not to mention that you've been on the other side of the world for six months." They speak in low tones, as they move to find a seat in the far corner of the room.

"The general public may have the attention spans of goldfish, but some genius over at TMZ dredged it up again when the carrier group came back in." Off of her questioning look, he adds, "The squadron keeps me… apprised… of things."

"I'm sorry." It is all she can think of to say, and it seems woefully inadequate. For all the demons that Logan has contended with and vanquished, _this_ one – the unwanted fame, the guilt by association – is apparently the one that cannot be overcome.

"Unfortunately, this – " he waves a dismissive hand toward the rest of the waiting room, where there are several people trying to pretend that they are not avidly interested in his presence, " – is one of the less savory inducements in the benefits package. It actually had gotten better until the whole follow-up on Lilly. It's been ten years!" He says the last sentence in a _What are you going to do next?_ emcee voice. "Honestly, who _doesn't _want to reminisce over the day that their father killed their girlfriend? Dating Carrie didn't exactly help either, but at least, the press focused more on her than they did on me."

"But it's over now. It's _over_. And you're here and I'm here." _And Abigail's here_. She is still holding his hand, and she rubs the other one over her belly. Logan watches, looking simultaneously grateful and overwhelmed.

"I'm not sure it'll ever be over. How many times can I be accused of murder before people figure that surely _one _of the times, I must have done it?"

"It _is _the Law of Averages," Veronica nods sagely, then pauses, as if arrested by a sudden thought, cutting her eyes at him sideways. "It occurs to me that maybe _I_ should be concerned."

"Run away!" He apes Monty Python in a barely audible voice, and they both laugh as the somber mood is broken. "Should have worn my uniform," he posits, taking her hand and kissing the backs of her fingers. "Induced some patriotic pride in the masses, reminded the common rabble of my noble sacrifice."

"Until they found out you just like to fly big, shiny, expensive things."

"Many aspects of military life have their perks," he lectures, his voice arch. "Even something like wearing the uniform… especially if _your_ initial reaction is any kind of indicator…" He pretends to give the room a salaciously contemplative onceover. "You pregnant types are crazy hormonal, right?"

"It'd be a risky move," she says, in a murmur meant for him alone. "We might be crazy hormonal, but that could work both for and against you. I'd most likely end up having to taser some other pregnant ladies, and I'm relatively certain society would frown on that."

"Might be worth it," he pretends to muse. "I certainly enjoyed the indirect results of your initial reaction."

"Ahem. The indirect results of my initial reaction are giving me heartburn as we speak. I'll be sure to remind you of this when she's waking us up at 3 AM."

He grins at this, even as he commiserates with a roll of his eyes, and the grin – one that actually lights his eyes and shows his teeth – does more to reassure her that _this is right_ than anything else. Because she catches, in that lone smile, that he is excited about this, that he loves her, that he loves their child. She thinks it again, the phrase that is fast becoming their mantra: _We can do this_.

A little red-headed nurse named Caroline calls her name. Veronica likes her; she is always sympathetic about the various pregnancy symptoms and she is so small that Veronica can look her in the face. To Caroline's credit, her eyes flick over Logan once, as she leads the two of them back to the exam room, and says only,

"Oh, Daddy's back! I'll bet you're so glad to have him home!"

Logan and Caroline both help situate Veronica on the exam table, and they have only a short wait before the doctor has arrived and Abigail's heartbeat is thrumming through the room via the Doppler.

The awestruck look on Logan's face is immensely gratifying, but Veronica still blames the hormones for the tears that spring immediately into her eyes.

"See," she whispers to him. "Those people out there – those people that don't know _us… _they don't matter. It's _this. _This is what matters."

He kisses her temple as they listen to the song of their daughter's lifeblood, and whispers, "I love you."

* * *

He has been home for twenty-three days when they settle on a house. It is all Logan, full steam ahead, amount-of-money-be-damned, and she finds herself more or less swept along for the ride, allowing things that her pride would have never let her stoop to, had she not been thinking mostly of Abigail.

Okay, and maybe that light in Logan's eyes had helped a bit too.

The house is beachfront, as if Logan would have it any other way. It is sprawling and spacious without being ridiculously oversized, and the lot is landscaped in such a way to maximize privacy. It is a decent drive outside of Neptune, but is closer to her work than it is to his.

She loves it on sight, and is secretly somewhat ashamed of that fact, even though she initially does not realize she is gushing until Logan coughs _wedding planner_ at her, without an ounce of subtlety. She loves opening the French doors from the office and hearing the breakers. She loves the beautiful kitchen and the sunny breakfast nook. She loves the large master suite and accompanying bathroom. She loves that there is a lovely corner room perfect for the nursery, plus a couple of extra bedrooms besides.

The house is entered on the main level from the front, but the yard slopes enough so that there is a sort of half-basement on a lower floor that opens onto the pool deck. The pool is small, but well appointed, and there is even a pool house opposite with a kitchenette and full bath. She smiles, already imagining her father staying there during holidays.

Logan takes her hand as they enter the lower level from the flagstone patio, and points out the man-cave, with ample space for any kind of gaming or theater set up one could want.

"Dick would say this was his room," he points out, teasing her.

"There is not enough Lysol in the lower forty-eight," she retorts.

But it is when he leads her further down the hall to an isolated door, leading to what appeared to be the only other room down there that she truly realizes that this house was as fated for them as they were for each other. The door opens to a fairly large room, adorned only with some built-in shelving and a counter running the length of three of the walls. He pulls something from his jacket pocket, and crosses the room to fiddle with the empty light socket on the ceiling.

He screws in a red bulb.

"Dark room," he mumbles, darting a glance at her that is almost shy.

She stands motionless in the middle of the empty room for a full thirty seconds, one hand over her mouth and one hand cradling Abigail. Tears are standing in her eyes, and she is afraid to blink.

"Veronica?" he ventures, after she has been silent long enough to make him nervous.

"How – ?" The word breaks off when her throat closes up. She has never been a purist – photography is something she's always been good at, but it was a means to an end, a way to document discoveries, to maintain leverage, to get what you wanted. And then, she'd taken an elective photography class at Stanford, and fallen in love with it. _Ars gratia artis_; color, shape, contrast, shadow. She'd become immersed in the world of red light and processing solution, damp prints clipped to clotheslines. It had satisfied something in her that she hadn't even known was missing. But that was during the radio silence years… something Logan should not yet have been aware of.

"I stopped calling you because I _can_ take a hint, Veronica. It doesn't necessarily follow that I never asked anyone about you or wanted to know how you were doing. I might have _wished _that were true a few _thousand _times, but," he shrugs, still looking self-effacing, "what're you gonna do?"

She laughs, and the tears do overspill, but cannot quench the smile on her face. Possibilities of several things she can say flash through her mind, but she settles on,

"You are _so_ getting laid tonight, mister."

* * *

He has been home for thirty-one days when they venture out for baby furniture. She insists on browsing through Neptune's available shops, and he has gone along with her request, with theatrical reluctance, after mentioning once or seven times that Neptune is not going to have the selection that San Diego or Los Angeles would.

They have been at it for three hours, and Veronica is beginning to fear that she will have to admit that Logan was right. Walking is beginning to become truly cumbersome, and initiates a nagging dull ache in her lower back. Also, she is hungry. And needs to go to the bathroom… _again_.

"This would be easier if it weren't for you," she grumbles.

"I protest!" Logan replies, in a tone of one in high dudgeon. "May I remind you that I was against this farce from the very beginning?"

"We have seen at least three different sets of furniture that would have been perfectly acceptable."

"See, even your word choice agrees with me. _Acceptable._ Something from IKEA would be _acceptable._ Except it's not," he cocked his head playfully at her, "because you have me here to maintain standards."

"I'm simultaneously shocked and disappointed, Lieutenant Echolls," she smirks back at him.

"Do tell."

"I would have thought that sleeping in a metal tub with hundreds of other men would have cured you of this."

"Of what? My agoraphobia?"

"Of your endemic elitist snobbery!"

"Because I don't want to buy anything at a place called 'Babies R Us'?"

"Abigail does not need a $4000 crib! And I'm not sure I understand your aversion to the convertible bed."

She takes his hand with a look of long-suffering amusement, and steers him away from the next boutique.

"It seems silly. If we convert the baby bed into a big bed, what will the next kid use? We'd have to buy another bed anyway. Where are we going?"

"I would have thought hand-me-downs were against the teachings laid out in the Gospel according to Logan Echolls anyway. And don't think I didn't notice what you did there. _Next_ kid? Can we get this one out of me first please? And maybe make sure we aren't going to irrevocably screw her up? I'm starving. I think I want some of those fried jalapeño cheese things."

He is laughing when she pulls him around the corner toward a local fast food establishment.

"You're going to be sorry you had those when you're trying to sleep sitting upright at 2 o'clock in the morning."

"No, _you're _going to be sorry when I wake you up to go get me another industrial-sized canister of Tums," she teases back, failing to notice that he has frozen in place on the sidewalk until she is jolted to a stop by their still joined hands.

Madison Sinclair is standing in front of them, having just exited a café, holding a to-go coffee and an impossibly large purse. Logan wonders if it is the painful awkwardness or the outright hostility that will first send bystanders fleeing the area.

"Madison," he manages to say, trying to calculate if he could actually steer Veronica around their high school classmate, and avoid this altogether.

"Logan. Ve_ron_ica." She makes the second name sound like an epithet. Her eyes rake roughly over Veronica's distended abdomen, and then roll up in her head in disgust. She mutters something that sounds like, "Figures," and adds, in a friendlier tone, "I would've thought that _you_ would have known better than to get yourself trapped, Logan."

"It's nice to know that I can still surprise you after all these years," he says in the amiable tone that means he is feeling anything but.

"I suppose what's really surprising is that it hasn't happened before. Given your… tendencies…" Madison scoffs.

"Given my 'tendencies'… what does that make you?" Logan's voice is still soft. He can feel Veronica's nails digging into the skin on the back of his hand.

"Proof that you could do better."

"Oh, he does _all_ right, believe you me," Veronica drawls with unsubtle innuendo, casually patting Abigail. Logan flings her a grateful glance; she is still with him on this.

"_Surely_ you don't have any complaints, Madison? I thought we had _fun_ in Aspen." There is a dangerous note in Logan's voice: a careful, stalking undertone, panther-like. Veronica realizes what he is waiting for a split second before Madison actually says it.

"_Please_," Madison scoffs. "You were so blasted out of your mind in Aspen that you couldn't even get it – " Too late, she clamps her lips shut against the rest of her sentence.

"I'm _so _sorry to hear that," Veronica says, pulling Logan with her, away from Madison. "Please be sure to fill out the customer satisfaction survey and leave it in our suggestion box." She gestures across the street with their joined hands. "Weren't we going there next, sweetie?" She indicates a jewelry store, and throws one last glance at Madison, a look that is just a bit more than only mocking triumph.

When they make it into the store, and out of Madison's line of sight, Logan brackets her face in both hands, and captures her lips. "I thought you were hungry," he says breathlessly, in between kisses.

"Oh, I still am," she assures him, willingly kissing him back. "You're going to have to go back for those jalapeño things." She presses her forehead to his. "Logan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for holding her against you for so long. When it – when it was clearly meaningless for you, when – when _I'm_ the one who drove you to it…"

"No, don't say that, don't ever say that," he is whispering now, desperate to make her understand. "I couldn't remember, not really. It was all so blurry, and I was so miserable. I couldn't _get_ drunk enough. But I – I shouldn't have ever put myself in that situation to begin with."

"She's not worth it." Veronica says it with the tone of someone finally realizing something. "She was _never _worth it." Logan kisses her again, pulling her as flush against him as they can manage, and they stay locked that way until a genteel cough snaps them from their reverie.

"Could I help the two of you? We have a lovely selection of diamonds."

Logan grins openly at her. "I don't know, Veronica. Could he help us?" He is all innocence, but Veronica blanches.

"Logan, I – "

"I was just kidding," he hastens to assure her. "Mostly, anyway."

"It's not that I _don't_ want to…ever. But – but not today." She inclines her head in the direction from which they'd come. "This isn't the story I want to tell our children." She can tell he understands by the look on his face. "We _could _look. For … for research purposes."

"I'll be sure to make a note."

* * *

He has been home for thirty-eight days, when she begins to have contractions. She wonders irritably if it is his military training that has him so calm and capable. She is amazed at how annoying it is, watching him retrieve her packed bag, carry it to the car, convey all necessary information to her father and Wallace, mostly because she is freaking the hell out.

"The nursery isn't finished! We don't have her bed! We're not even finished moving in!" Somehow these three facts have leapt into her mind as the most important.

"She is an infant, Veronica. We could have her sleep in a dresser drawer, and she is not going to care."

"What about the car seat? The hospital won't let us take her home without a car seat!"

"We can get a car seat. I'll call my people."

"Your people?" She raises one eyebrow, a modicum of humor creeping back into her voice. She checks her watch. It has been ten minutes since she's had a contraction.

"You know, the ones who facilitate my endemic snobbery."

"Endemic _elitist_ snobbery," she corrects him absently, ducking her head and tensing up as she feels her belly tighten. "It's early. Do you think it's too early?"

"It's not dangerously early. She's going to be just fine."

She concedes his point, and lets him lead her to the car. "It'll be nice to see my feet again."

* * *

He has been home for thirty-nine days when they are sent home from the hospital, because the contractions have tapered off, and no progress is being made. She is being sent home to expand some more. It makes her grumpy and tired, and a strange mixture of relieved and disappointed. Their friends have gone home long since, and her father left just before they did, nursing an enormous cup of coffee.

"Well, look at that," Logan says to her _sotto voce_, as they exit the hospital. "They are letting us take her home, _without _a car seat."

"I hate you," she says promptly, but without rancor. "I'm never letting you touch me again."

"Ah, false promises! We both know that you can't help but succumb to my charms." She rolls her eyes at him, as he opens her door, and she heaves herself into the passenger seat. She watches him curiously in the rear view mirror, as he takes his time crossing behind the car, sending a text as he walks. He pockets his phone as he opens the driver's side door, and gets in without comment.

"What are we doing?"

"Not having a baby today," he quips before he can stop himself. She is glaring again, and his expression softens. "We're going home. We're going to pick out a car seat and a bed, and order them. And you're going to rest."

"I love you."

"How could you not?"

She sleeps most of the ride home, but rouses easily when he opens her door and helps her out of the car. He looks antsy now, and she cannot fathom why. He has been a bastion of calmness for her during the entirety of the last twenty-four hours.

"Pool?" he asks her.

"Please."

She changes into a suit, while he fixes them drinks, and when she comes out onto the patio, he is waiting to help her into the floating chaise.

"I'll bring the laptop out here too," he offers, gripping her hand tightly as she steps down. She knows she is unwieldy and her center of gravity is long gone, and she can't help but laugh, as he is forced to shuffle sideways to maintain his balance, soaking one shoe and the cuff of his pants leg on the top step into the pool. "Are you situated?" At her nod, he hands her the strawberry lemonade, and retreats, calling, "I'll be right back."

She sighs, pulling her sunglasses off of the top of her head to shade her eyes, and rubbing her other hand over the expanse of Abigail. She moves to sit her drink in the cupholder, but it goes in cock-eyed and very nearly spills. She swears under her breath, catching the drink, and moves it to see what she inadvertently sat it on.

There is a black velvet box sitting in the bottom of the cupholder.

She gropes blindly for the edge of the pool, only a foot away, and pulls the chair towards it. She sets the drink on the deck with a trembling hand, and looks toward the house. He has not gone inside, but is waiting near the doorway, watching for her reaction.

She flips the box open with her thumbs, and beholds a ring that is a work of art, the solitaire no bigger than a carat, and the setting antique.

"I really wanted to get you one so big that you'd have to walk around with your knuckles dragging the ground, but I figured this would go over better." He saunters back toward the pool, affecting nonchalance in a way that is almost convincing.

She can't find any words, and Abigail is doing _handsprings _underneath her ribs.

"So…do you want to?" Again, his voice is light, but she has been able to see through him for a long time now, and she knows how much he wants this, can _feel_ it thrumming between them like something tangible. She looks up at him, and his eyes are riveted on her so intensely that it reminds her of the day they first kissed outside the Camelot.

"After all this time – after the things that we've – the way I've treated – are you _sure?"_ She feels her throat closing up, clogging with tears, and she struggles to speak. "Do you really – do you _really _want _me_?" He kicks off his shoes, and flops down on the pool deck beside her, heedless of the wet.

"Veronica," he echoes her incredulous tone. "All I've _ever_ wanted was you."

She looks at him with soft, damp eyes, and nods three times before she can make any words come out.

"Okay…" she says. It's not the most elegant response to a proprosal. "Okay then."

His laugh sounds like music. Abigail thumps a syncopated rhythm inside her.

_My father is joyful._

* * *

He has been home for fifty-two days when the contractions start again, different from the brief tight ripples of Braxton-Hicks. She lets three of them go by, before coming to the conclusion that these are not the same, and that this might actually be it this time. She pads down the hall in her sock feet to find Logan.

He is in the nursery, attaching a bracket to the wall so a picture can be hung. The room is all but complete, decorated in shades of coral, taupe and pale green. There is a wooden script "_A" _hanging above the changing table, backed with burlap, topped with grosgrain ribbon, and painted to look distressed. He had fought her over the shabby chic look, but she had prevailed, even though he continued to maintain that he had veto power, should she go overboard with it.

Another contraction washes over her as she crosses the threshold, and it makes his name come out sounding like, "Lo-_ho-_gan."

She startles him, and he drops the electric screwdriver, swearing as it narrowly misses his foot.

"Yeah?" he says expectantly, bending over to retrieve the tool. Lately, he has responded to any address she has made to him expectantly, caught as they were in this seemingly interminable waiting. _Like every day is Christmas Eve_, she thinks. It does get tiring.

"I think this is it."

"All right," he says smoothly.

He takes the waiting picture, and quickly situates it on the bracket, before taking the screwdriver with him and exiting the nursery. She puts on her shoes, and he gets the bag, and in no time at all, they are in the car.

She laughs openly at him, when he gets into the car, and she realizes that he is still holding the screwdriver. She gleefully claps her hands.

"I was hoping you would humor me by acting like a sitcom father-to-be at least once."

"Sure, because _that's_ what I was doing," he mutters, tossing the screwdriver into the back of the car, making sure to miss the brand new car seat that is already buckled in. He shifts the car into reverse, but stops when she pulls forward against the seatbelt, her face screwed up in a grimace.

"Ow," she manages after a beat.

"You ready?" he asks. She manages a tremulous smile.

"Let's do this, baby-daddy."

* * *

He has been home for fifty-three days when Abigail Joy Echolls makes her grand entrance into the world, red-faced and furious. There was mild concern initially at the size of the baby coupled with Veronica's small stature, but the delivery, while long, has been relatively uncomplicated.

She lets out a sigh of relief when she hears the squalling, and her eyes, which had been closed, race immediately to Logan. He is watching the activity at her feet with a sort of disbelieving wonderment.

"Beautiful girl!" A nurse calls out, and she feels her face collapse with uncontrollable tears.

"Let me see her; let me…" she gropes in the general direction of the baby. At the doctor's nod, Logan cuts the cord, with adorable gravitas, and the next thing she knows, her gooey baby is flopped onto her chest for her to see for the first time. She hardly has any hair, and what fuzz there is looks to be blond. She looks completely disgruntled at Veronica's intrusive touch, as she counts fingers and toes.

"I don't know…" Logan says dubiously. "I call a do-over on this one. I don't think she's quite up to our standard of cuteness." She sees two of the nurses exchange affronted glances, but she grins. The wobbly timbre in his voice gives him away.

"I did the best _I _could," she teases back, even though her voice is faint with fatigue. "Unfortunately, even all this hotness still had to contend with your genetics."

Then Abigail is gone, and there is much bustling as the nurses clean up both the baby and her mother. "She'll be right back," the nurse promises.

"God, Veronica." Logan is at her elbow, dabbing beneath her eyes at the tears she didn't even realize were there. "Isn't she beautiful? I – I mean, I never… I _never _thought… and – and you did great. I don't see how you – " He subsides into a baffled silence, settling on lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her fingertips.

"If you already sound this incoherent, I'd hate to see what a few years of kids' programming on Nickelodeon does to you," she mumbles, smirking at him.

"Eight pounds, four ounces," The nurse calls out from across the birthing suite. "Twenty inches long. Apgar is a nine." Only a couple of moments later, they bring her back, bundled up in hospital issue blanket and cap. She is squinting at them, as the nurse lays her in Veronica's arms, her eyes murky blue and unfocused. "You'll want to try to nurse her in just a bit."

"She's perfect. She's _perfect_," Logan murmurs, brushing back the strands of damp hair still clinging to Veronica's forehead, then following his fingers' path with his lips. "Thank you for her."

"You helped too."

"I didn't do any of the hard part," he protests. She half-grins, inches from falling asleep.

"There's a joke in there somewhere, I think. But I'm too tired to figure out what it is." She reaches up and draws two fingers along Logan's jaw line. "I love you."

"It's a good thing. Because I hate to tell you, but you're stuck with me now." His _I love you too _is shining in his smile and in his eyes.

"Will you go get my dad?"

"Of course." He leans over, kisses her, and gently extricates Abigail, cuddling her against his chest. "Rest for a minute. She's going to need to eat soon."

She watches him as he goes to the door and speaks to a nurse, as he holds their daughter like he's been doing it for years. There have been times where she never would have been able to imagine Logan Echolls with any baby at all, much less one that was also hers. The path that they've traveled to get to this point has been long and painful and perilous, and she still can't help but be grateful. He ensnared her once, for all time, it seems, and now his daughter stands poised to do the same.

_You're stuck with me now_, he had said. She is glad.

_We can do this._

**The End.**

**This was such a fun story to write. I've loved the response to my sticking a toe in the VM fandom. Can't wait to read your thoughts on the final chapter! Thanks so much!**


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